


A Boy

by Bitterblue



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, I guess trans character studies is my true gift to the fandom, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13629210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitterblue/pseuds/Bitterblue
Summary: Your parents wanted a boy.





	A Boy

Your parents wanted a boy.

You wanted to be something of your own making, but when people smiled at you they smiled with all of their teeth showing and told your parents what a handsome boy you were, so you swallowed down the protests and tried to make your face do the teeth-showing smile, too. It never really worked. Your father told you not to scowl so much.

Your parents wanted a boy so much they told everyone that you were one, the son they'd desired and deserved (finally a son) (three daughters first, a trial for anyone). It must have been a very good lie, because it seemed to fool just about everyone you met. You became adept at escape at a very young age.

You wanted some of the things they said that came with being a boy: the stick-swords (later, perfectly balanced steel things more fit to fencing than fighting) (you liked the sticks better), the less-fussy clothes than your mother and sisters wore, the pretty girls who laughed in delight when you smiled at them. Your mother told you not to flirt so much.

Your parents wanted a boy and for a while you decided it was alright, it was enough, because while it was infuriating that they didn't listen (never listened) (had never listened) (would never listen) when you tried, patiently, to explain that they were mistaken about the entire boy situation, it got you things you liked. It got you freedom.

You wanted freedom more than anything, but the thing about your parents wanting a boy was that you would, fundamentally, never be free. They wanted a boy for the prestige, for the heir, for the continuity of their line (even though you were the youngest) (even though you had three older sisters). In being the boy they wanted, you were trapped by your own freedom and by your increasingly betrayer body in equal measure.

Your parents wanted a boy even though you knew they had only daughters so much that your body did its best to comply against every thought and desire and filament of rage contained within you. Your middle sister teased-not-teased that you'd become a vampire, never willing to look into the mirror, and you bit back retorts that this face was not your own until your lips bled which, in retrospect, did not help the teasing.

You wanted escape more than anything: escape was freedom's purer cousin, the moment of relief before the weight of reality could settle on your shoulders. You tried a few different escapes (running into the dark of night; caught by guards) (enough drink to leave evenings, days, weeks fuzzy or absent; the vomiting wasn't worth it) and none of them stuck. You became a trapped, wild thing, lashing out at your captors.

Your parents wanted a boy but instead they had you, and you'd tried to tell them for years that they had been mistaken but what it takes is this: you are two decades old and you sneak into your youngest sister's room and borrow her least favourite dress and they catch you meeting your own gaze in the mirror. They take you to Zedash the next morning. A monk-son is respectable. You are not respectable. You will become a monk. You will become respectable.

You wanted to get out of that town and out of that life for so long that you don't know how to do anything but bristle when the woman they hand you over to brings a hand down on your shoulder, her face unreadable as you stand beside her and try not to look at anything in particular, your parents recounting the list of reasons you've been brought to this place. When they have finished, they go, goodbye-less.

Your parents wanted a boy so much they would leave you in the care of monks sooner than admit the mistake. The monk-woman looks at you, and her face is not kind or warm or maternal and she waits until you hold her gaze for a full minute before she turns her head a little over one shoulder and shouts back to someone to get a new bed in the girls' dormitory prepared, and a uniform, and probably other things besides but you can't hear any of them for the rush of blood in your ears.


End file.
